


Then the Bottom Drops Out

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Challenge Response, Character Study, Community: thegameison_sh, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attack, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is triggered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then the Bottom Drops Out

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/profile)[**thegameison_sh**](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/) Challenge #4. Not beta'd or Brit-picked. Could be read as gen friendship or slash.

It begins with a single drop of blood.

He doesn’t feel the cut from the razor, although he does see the blood bead up on his cheek. Ignoring it, he carries on with his morning shave until the blood runs down and gathers at the brink of his jaw, and the weight of it finally forces it to separate with a quiet _blip_ into the water-filled sink. He follows the sound with his eyes and then…time gives a funny sort of hiccup and starts to crawl forward, as if he’s watching a frame-by-frame video replay. He stares into the water, and sees an eternity unfold in a few seconds.

The single drop of blood remains suspended for just a moment – a perfect sphere of red – before losing its integrity. Irreparably damaged from the impact, its molecules dissipate one by one into the water, which billows out in concentric circles from where the droplet fell. Tattered ribbons begin to unfurl from the epicenter, forming a messy blotch like a gunshot wound, deep and raw and ragged at the edges. The coiling ribbons become tendrils of scarlet smoke, carrying him back to the battlefield, and he chokes on the heat and acrid smell of burning diesel that suddenly surround him.

He can still hear the sound of Sherlock’s violin coming from the living room over the growing din of his own heartbeat. The clench in his gut and the chill on his skin tell him what’s coming next, as sure as his granddad’s gammy leg could auger a storm. He tries to will it away, tries to keep his hands from shaking, tries to finish this one simple task he’s done a thousand times. Why should this happen now? He gives up after a few more strokes and a few more nicks, rinses the blade and sets it down, wipes his face. Leaning forward, he grasps the sink with both hands and bows his head, trying to steady himself.

He lets go of the sink and paces restlessly within the confines of the tiny bathroom, circling, circling, can’t stop moving. Tears wet his cheeks, but he doesn’t feel like crying, what’s there to cry about? Now his breathing comes too quickly, in big, rasping breaths. His legs are weak and shaking, like they’re trying to carry him across a narrow ledge; far below a pit of fathomless, churning water beckons. If only he can get to the other side...

Then the bottom drops out. Reeling backwards, he thuds into the wall and slides down against the tiles – cold and damp against the bare skin of his back.

 _Please…please…_

He speaks his entreaties aloud, not knowing what boon he’s asking, or of whom he’s asking it. He closes his eyes against the growing darkness; a heavy weight settles over his chest, stilling his breath.

It feels like drowning.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been under when Sherlock’s hands finally reach for him, pulling him up through the murky, black depths. Gasping for breath as if coming up for air, he reaches for the one thing, solid and real, amidst a sea of fear. Sherlock’s voice is a deep and soothing guide, signaling the way home through the shadow and fog of bitter memory. John clings as if to a buoy holding him afloat, until finally the roiling waves around him calm, and are still.

 


End file.
